


Vertiginous (a Playthings interlude)

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Coda, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e11 Playthings, Guilt, M/M, Missing Scene, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did anyone else think this entire episode was a series of moments screaming "insert wincest here" in big, neon letters? It was apparently a command I couldn't resist.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Vertiginous (a Playthings interlude)

It's been a month since they started searching for Ava, another couple of days since Sam admitted they were getting nowhere and suggested they move on. Instead of the expected sulk, the youngest Winchester was calm and rational, all well-reasoned arguments for why they should get back on the road. A month of dead ends was wearing them down, and check out this hotel. Potentially haunted, full of people who might need their help, and Dean _knows_ he should have seen this coming about a hundred miles back.

Because now Sam is calling him 'bossy,' and Dean can't figure out how his little brother managed to get himself drunk in the time since the coroner showed up. He chucks his jacket in the corner and makes a mental note to give Sam shit for being a lightweight. Tomorrow. _After_ kicking his ass.

"Dude, what are you thinking? We're working a case."

"That guy who hung himself," Sam says. His voice scratches and sounds too low. "I couldn't save him."

"What are you talking about? You didn't know. You couldn't have done anything." Dean lets the look of utter befuddlement reign, because he's got no idea what to do with this.

"That's an excuse, Dean. I should've found a way to save him. I should've saved Ava, too." The tears in Sam's eyes don’t fall, but his voice shivers with something dark.

"Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that."

"No, Dean, you don't understand, alright?" Sam leans forward in his chair, eyes glazed and words rushing together, slurred by the alcohol. "The more people I save, the more I can change." Dean almost flinches, because the look in Sam's eyes _burns_ with something, even through the blurred edges of way too drunk for this conversation.

"Change what?"

"My destiny, Dean!"

And there it is. He should have seen it, and he can't fix it, and just like that everything is spinning out around them. Dean wishes the vertigo weren't starting to feel familiar.

"Alright, time for bed," he mutters, leaning down and pulling his brother onto unsteady feet. "C'mon, Sasquatch. C'mon."

"I need you to watch out for me."

"Yeah," Dean assures, hauling and herding determinedly across the room. "I always do."

"No. No, no, no." Sam stops in his tracks and won't be budged another inch. That something burning in his eyes goes manic, and the inarticulate intensity would be amusing if their lives were just a little less screwed up. "You have to watch out for me. All right? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not, you have to kill me."

"Sam--"

"Dean," Sam whispers and half swallows his words. "Dad told you to do it, you have to."

"Yeah, well, Dad's an ass. He never should've said anything. I mean, you don't do that. You don't lay that kind of crap on your kids." He can't take this right now. He can't deal with the things coming out of Sam's mouth, but his brother is insistent.

"No. He was right to say it. Who knows what I might become?" Sam's voice rises suddenly, from deep mumble to angry bellow as all the words Dean doesn't want to hear tear loose. "Even now, everyone around me dies!"

"Well, I'm not dying. Okay? And neither are you." It's the only reassurance he has, and it rings hollow in his own ears as he shoves his brother towards bed and sleep. "Sit down," he orders.

"No, please. Dean." Sam refuses to sit. He's suddenly standing too close, hands gripping hard at Dean's shoulders. His face looks eerie and feverish in the light from the sculpted pink monstrosity of a lamp between their beds, and Dean manages not to grunt his disapproval when fingers tighten hard through his sleeves. He just stares up and dies inside as Sam presses obliviously on. "You're the only one who can do it. Promise."

"Don't ask that of me." This is despair.

"Dean, please. You have to promise me." A long silence stretches nearly distraught between them, accompanied by a look that Dean can't brush off and ignore. Sam isn't going to let go of him and sleep without an answer to his demand, and Dean is powerless against the broken look in those eyes.

"I promise," he hears himself whisper, and something inside him screams.

"Thanks. Thank you." Sam's hands release his arms and fly to his face, fingers sliding along the back of Dean's neck as he mutters his slurred appreciation. Dean puts up with it for a minute, maybe two, and finally gives Sam a gentle but insistent shove that sends him stumbling back a step and landing perched on the side of the bed.

"Sleep," Dean orders. He runs a hand through his own disheveled hair and looks anywhere but at his brother, silently willing Sam to lie down and release him from that indecipherable stare. His eyes hover on the window, the door, the weird white dress that someone decided ought to be hanging on the wall. They finally return to his brother when he feels fingers close around his wrist. Sam scoots back to sit more securely on the bed, but he remains stubbornly upright.

"Dean." There's a different intensity in those eyes now, released from existential panic by a brother's promise. The look is impossible to interpret, but just the same Dean finds himself swallowing hard past a lump in his throat. He opens his mouth, not knowing what he's going to say. Maybe his brother's name. Maybe something else entirely. He's not sure yet.

Whatever it is chokes into a startled sound when Sam yanks him forward by a suddenly firm grip, other hand guiding him by the hip, and Dean finds himself sitting astride Sam’s lap. The bed, none too stable to begin with, gives a disconcerting shudder at the sudden extra weight.

"Sam?"

He doesn't have much time to be confused about intentions before Sam is sliding a hand along the nape of his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. It's surprisingly coordinated but sloppy all the same, and Dean is too busy misfiring every neuron in his brain to be impressed. He’s too goddamn stunned to form any response, verbal or physical. A surprised gasp is all he can manage when Sam gives up gently prodding at his closed and unresponsive mouth, and instead takes Dean's lower lip between his teeth.

The gasp is apparently all the opening necessary, as Sam's tongue sneaks in past startled lips. He takes the chance to taste, explore, claim, and for a moment Dean lets him do it. Opens up to let him further in, lets Sam reposition their mouths for better access, closer contact. His hands slide up along his brother's chest and rest there.

Then he's shoving, abruptly and a little too hard, tearing free from the kiss and ignoring the nearly shattered whimper from Sam. The movement doesn't put nearly enough space between them.

"What is this, Sammy?" he asks. Tries to keep his expression neutral and guarded. Because Sam wants normal and safe, and Sam has _never_ looked at him the way he's looking now. Dean doesn't even have words for the look in his baby brother's eyes, desperate and aching and ready to devour him alive. Instinct tells him to stand up and put half the room between them. But even if the hand at his hip hadn't tightened its hold, he doubts he could make himself move.

"What does it look like?" Sam teases, but something darker runs beneath the question.

"Like something in your head has finally snapped in two. Seriously, Sam. What are you doing?" And just like that all pretense at teasing is gone, half-smirk vanishing to be replaced with a look so raw and shattered that Dean exhales in surprise. Sam tugs with both hands, pulling Dean flush against him, and there's no way for Dean to miss Sam's focused intent, or the erection pressing in on him through two layers of denim. His own jeans feel suddenly too tight, and he resists the urge to squirm.

"I'm not stupid, Dean." And it's not really a non sequitur. "I know it's not always worry that has you watching me so close."

"It is _so_." Which isn't all that useful a contribution, but Dean's brain is still trying to restart and catch up.

"Fine. It's not _only_ worry."

"That's not--"

"Dean, please." Sam's hand finds his face again, thumb tracing pleadingly along his lower lip.

"You? Are tanked." Dean barely manages half a smile before his expression drops hard and serious again. "Do you even get what you're asking for?"

"Did I mention that I'm not stupid?"

Dean inhales a slow, jagged breath and wills the conflicting impulses in his head to settle. He can do this. He can ignore his downstairs brain and end this conversation here and now, before more damage is done. Before Sam admits to having already easily observed any more of what Dean had thought his best-kept secrets. He moves to stand.

And finds himself on his back against the mattress, six feet and four inches of tense, vibrating Sam on top of him. He blinks, disoriented and amazed at the maneuver, and tries not to think about all the ways tonight can still go wrong.

The second kiss finds him more prepared than the first, and he notes the conflicting tastes of alcohol on Sam’s tongue as it slides past his lips and maps the contours of his mouth. It's long seconds before Dean realizes both his arms are pinned to the bedspread, Sam's freakishly long fingers encircling his wrists. Sam's knee slips between his legs with a disconcerting familiarity, and Dean can't help groaning into the kiss when Sam slides deliberately against him.

"Sam, no," Dean breathes once his brother breaks away and pulls back to stare at him, still from too damn close for Dean's comfort, or his ability to focus. "We can't do this."

"Why not?"

The question almost breaks him into a thousand little pieces of 'yes' and 'please' and 'okay, Sammy.' But he meets that too intense gaze and sets his jaw in defiance. It's his job to stop this, and he's not going to let the desperation in Sam's eyes undermine him any further than it already has.

"You want a list? All the reasons we can't do this, starting with 'incest' and ending with a reminder that you're off-your-ass drunk right now?"

Sam ignores the rhetorical questions in favor of licking his way down Dean's throat in warm, wet circles. The distraction makes Dean proud at getting his point out, but it seems to be completely lost on his audience. Sam pulls away and levels dilated eyes at his brother.

"But not that you don't want to."

Dean only hesitates a moment too long before asserting an almost confident "I don't want to."

"Liar." Sam's fingers dig suddenly harsh against his wrists. The grip of enormous hands tightens and hardens into something outright painful. Dean knows bruises well enough to feel them forming under his skin, and he doesn't like where this is going. Sam is staring him down, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his brother. It's an impasse, dragging out for minutes on end between them as Dean keeps his face defiant and stubbornly ignores Sam's erection pressing against his hip, the sensation of Sam's thigh pressing hard against his own interested cock.

Just as suddenly as it began, the gripping pressure vanishes and the hands are gone. Sam presses his palms against the comforter on either side of Dean's head, and the stubborn confidence drains from his frame. The desperation in his eyes opens to reveal a different sort of vulnerability, a chasm of need that claws at Dean's carefully constructed defenses. It should be a relief when he can't see Sam's face anymore, but the wary tension only sharpens when his brother collapses against him. The weight presses him hard into the old mattress, and he feels Sam's face buried against his throat. Breathing again requires deliberate attention, forcing air in and out of resisting lungs.

"Dean," Sam breathes into his skin, and something in that voice fatally fractures the last of his resolve. The "please" that follows is too much. Dean shivers when Sam shifts against him. Lips lay tentative kisses along his throat, up across his jaw, and this time Dean returns in kind when Sam’s mouth finds his. His own hands slide into Sam's hair with something like relief, and he rubs back against the offered friction when Sam grinds their hips together.

Sam's hand slips up and under his shirt to slide along Dean's ribs, and suddenly there's too damn much clothing between them. Four shirts come off in a messy tangle that leaves Dean wondering why they wear so many layers, and they crash back into each other. Skin on skin at last, and Sam's weight presses him hard against the protesting bed. Their hands slide everywhere, uncoordinated and echoing with desperation, and the inarticulate noises could be coming from either of their throats.

The weight holding him down disappears without warning, and by the time it returns Sam has made efficient work of Dean's jeans and boxers. Dean manages a hissed " _Christ_ , Sammy!" when his brother's hand closes around him. All irritation at the fact that Sam's pants are still on vanishes as long fingers stroke along the entire length of his dick, and his hips buck up and into that hand.

"You got anything?" Sam asks in a rattling whisper against his ear. Dean just shakes his head. Not like he was expecting this. Not like he makes a point to be prepared, just in case his baby brother wants to fuck him through the mattress in some haunted hotel. He's kept his hookups strictly female since he dragged his brother back into his life, and no he _doesn't_ have the stuff for this.

But he's already signed his own warrant. He's going to hell for this, and the thought of impending discomfort is nothing compared to the realization of just how badly he needs to feel Sam inside him. Right. Goddamn. Now.

"Shit, Sam, do it anyway."

"You sure?" The hesitance in the question is belied by the sound of Sam's jeans unzipping and the rustle of fabric and denim. Sam doesn't bother shoving his pants any farther down than needed to free his own straining erection, and Dean can’t choke back a strangled moan when Sam presses close, because _that's_ the feeling of skin on skin that he's been waiting for. He doesn't trust his voice, so he just nods in answer.

The saliva isn't really enough, but Sam's fingers are gentle as they slide in and prep him. He squirms against the touch, because it's been a long goddamn time and he isn't ready for this. After three fingers Sam pulls away, and Dean hears him spit into his hand.

He forces his body to relax around the intrusion as Sam's cock slides oh-so-carefully into him, but he can't keep the hitch out of his breathing or swallow the grunt of discomfort. He arches back against the bed and growls a curse when Sam leans in and licks a line straight from clavicle to ear.

Dean is grateful for the moment his brother gives him to adjust before moving. The discomfort is manageable, especially once Sam's hand slides between them and resumes his firm, sure stroking along Dean's dick, clever twists of the wrist making him hiss and buck along with every thrust. Sam is big, but Dean's had bigger, and he hooks his ankles behind his brother's back in silent encouragement. Or what would be silent encouragement if not for the sounds tearing themselves from Dean’s throat with every jerk and thrust, and he tightens his legs around Sam’s waist to offer easier access and urge him further, faster, _more_.

Sam is making his own holy litany of sounds, face buried against his brother's shoulder and free hand sliding to grasp at one of Dean's, holding it against the pillow with their fingers interlocked. Dean's other hand stays buried in the floppy mess of Sam's hair while the bed creaks and shakes its protest, and they're probably scuffing the hell out of the wall behind the headboard. Sam kisses him again, quick and hungry, before pulling back and biting hard at the flesh just below his ear.

Dean comes first, his brother's name swallowed by Sam's lips in a bruising kiss. Sam's hand eases him down, stroking softly until he's completely spent. Another thrust. Two more. Six, seven, eight, and Sam chokes off a howl as his own orgasm tears through him. He collapses with moans and kisses, and Dean swallows the protesting sound that threatens as Sam slides out of him. Too spent for anything more, they lie there in a tangled heap.

Dean is still trying to get his own ragged breathing under control when he realizes that Sam is asleep on top of him. It's a feat of strength and willpower to work his way out from under the giant furnace that is the youngest Winchester, and he's in the bathroom on autopilot, wetting a towel to clean up. He wipes himself off, then does the same for his unconscious pile of a brother, awkwardly tucking him back into pants that made it through unscathed.

He finds his own clothes and checks himself over in the bathroom mirror. There's no denying that he looks well and thoroughly fucked, and his face burns with shame and a little despair. He splashes water on his face, scrubs his hand over his eyes and through his hair. Sam is asleep on his side and snoring softly as Dean makes a suddenly desperate escape from the confines of the room. Maybe there's more information he can glean from this place yet tonight. Maybe there's a corner he can hole up in for an hour or two, since he won't be able to sleep anyway. Maybe Sam won't want to kill him tomorrow when he wakes up and remembers what happened.

Maybe the floor will open up and swallow Dean whole as he moves through the hall, saving him from the impending, inevitable shit-storm.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean's first half-formed thought when he wakes is amazement that he actually managed to sleep. Sam is still gone to the world in the other bed, and Dean spares him a quick check before heading out to make use of the morning. He takes the time to disguise the bitten bruise on his neck with makeup, not too keen on the idea of questioning looks from the pretty lady running the hotel. He usually chafes at the need to keep a supply of the stuff, but one can't impersonate public officials while covered in the suspicious bruises generated by their line of work. Today he's just grateful to have the stuff on hand.

Because now, almost eleven o'clock when he wanders back into room 237, it feels like a little bit of extra armor against the pending confrontation. He closes the door behind him and tosses his jacket over the foot of the bed to the soundtrack of Sam groaning from the bathroom. It looks like he missed all the action, something for which he's more than a little grateful, but his nerves are still crawling.

"How you feeling, Sammy? I guess mixing whiskey and jäger wasn't such a gangbuster idea, was it." He forces his tone and his laugh to stay light with the comment, but can't keep a more serious note out of his voice when he ventures, "I'll bet you don't remember a thing from last night, do you."

Another groan from behind him, and Sam's only response is "I can still taste the tequila." Dean takes a moment to let the words wash through him. His back is to Sam, who's a little too distracted by his hangover anyway, and Dean doesn't even try to keep the relief off his face.

"You know, there's a really good hangover remedy," he says, and this time the amusement is mostly genuine. "It's a greasy pork sandwich served up in a dirty ashtray." The comment elicits an enormous groan and an "I hate you."

"I know you do." He smiles a real smile, one that's only a little bit smudged around the edges, and slides back into work mode. Crisis averted, now it's time to get back to hunting. Things to do and mysteries to solve, and there'll be time to unpack and analyze his own inner demons later.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Well, you saved the mom. Saved the girl… Not a bad day." They've said their goodbyes and packed up their things, and the car and open road await. "Y'know, I could've saved them myself, but I didn't want you to feel useless."

"I appreciate it," Sam says dryly, but there's a smile in his voice and maybe even a dash of brotherly affection.

"Feels good to get back in the saddle, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah it does." Suddenly the smile is gone, and Sam is leveling a familiar look at him over the roof of the car. "But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean."

Dean's heart stops beating right there in his chest, and he tries to keep the panic from his eyes and his voice when he answers. "We talked about a lot of things last night."

"You know what I mean."

"You were wasted."

"But you weren't." Dean hears accusation in the words. "And you promised."

The moment threatens to stretch impossible between them, but this damage is already done. When Sam gets in the car, Dean follows and takes his time slamming the door behind him. His hands feel clammy on the steering wheel. Sam remembers. Unintended promises aside, this wasn't part of the equation.

"Sam, what happened last night…" he starts, because he knows he's the one that has to do it. He should have been stronger, should have stopped things before they got half that far. How can he protect Sam from what he might become, when he can't protect him from Dean his own goddamn self? When he apparently lacks even the willpower to keep his hands _off_ when his brother is drunk, and vulnerable, and pleading for something Dean should never have given him.

"I'm sorry," Sam jumps in, cutting him off before he can get the apology past a suddenly constricted throat. Dean's eyes fly up, startled and staring. He's glad he hasn't started the car and pulled onto the road yet, because his baby would likely have a tree-shaped dent in her front fender to evidence his surprise.

"That's not how this conversation is supposed to go, Sammy. I'm the one should be apologizing, not you."

"You're joking." There's no humor in Sam's eyes. And of all the ways this confrontation could have gone, Dean isn't prepared for this. Rage and fury he can deal with. A righteous sense of betrayal he was ready to start groveling his way back from. But the sheer volume of the guilt radiating from his brother's posture rivals Dean's own, and he doesn't know where to start.

"Sam, you were _drunk_."

"And that's suddenly an excuse for molesting my brother? For coercing him into sex he didn't want to have?"

"Sammy, no, you can't--" His protest chokes away to nothing when Sam reaches out and grabs his sleeve. A determined yank pulls the fabric up to reveal the wristful of bruises beneath, and Dean flinches at the visual reminder of all the things he shouldn’t have let happen. The silence in the car is a stifling weight between them while Dean waits long, ineffectual minutes for his brother to break through it. All he gets is the drilling weight of that dark stare.

"Sam, stop it," he finally says, yanking his hand away and turning his gaze to glower through the windshield.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like you fucking _raped_ me! You obviously remember enough to know that's not what happened."

"You said no," Sam points out. "You said 'no', and 'we can't' and 'I don't want to'. And I fucked you anyway." His voice is thick and disconnected, and Dean cringes because he's not supposed to remember _that_ clearly.

"I told you to do it." His hands clutch uselessly at the steering wheel, and he can still feel Sam's gaze burning into the side of his face. "When you realized we didn't have the stuff for it, you were going to stop, and I told you to do it anyway." His face would be burning all on its own now, even without Sam staring at him.

"No."

"No what?"

"No, I wasn't going to stop." The words hit Dean hard and he nearly gets whiplash from whirling to stare at his brother. The stare lasts for long, taut moments, ice settling in his gut, and he's suddenly even less sure he can do this. What can he possibly say in response to that? But they need to fix this, and the look in Sam's eyes says he's in no condition to try. That leaves it to Dean, and he swallows hard and stalls for too long before managing an attempt at words that might get them past this.

"That… I don't know whether to believe that or not. But it doesn't change anything about what happened last night." He's making this up as he goes, not even sure what words are going to come out of his mouth before he hears them. "Yeah, you were drunk and stupid. But like you pointed out just now, I wasn't. I could have stopped you. I _should_ have stopped you, and I didn't."

"Dean, you don't know--"

"Yes. I do. I could have stopped you, and I barely tried," he insists. "So whatever blame there is here, you don't get to take it all. Because I'm sure as hell not letting you have my share."

Sam doesn't look happy with that answer, but he doesn't protest again. Dean starts the car and pulls away from the hotel in the direction of the interstate. The exchange churns unpleasantly in his gut, raising questions he doesn't want in his head. About his brother, about what he might become, and how Dean is supposed to tell if it happens.

He doesn't want to think about any of it, especially all the new questions about what might have happened if his willpower hadn't completely crumbled in Sam's bed last night. And he knows, with a burning certainty, that killing his brother will destroy what little of him is left.

~*~*~*~fin~*~*~*~

 

A/N (an addendum): I could pretend this was a deliberate choice, but the truth is that in the writing of this fic I completely forgot Sam still has his cast on through the whole episode. I thought about fixing that detail when I realized, but it made one of my favorite visuals completely impossible. So I confess my sins now, and pray your forgiveness for my apparent lack of attention to detail.


End file.
